Page 3 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Three

Beau

T he text message from my father arrived at 6:12 AM, precisely three minutes before my alarm was set to go off.

Call me immediately.

I stared at the screen, my heart accelerating with the precise, mechanical rhythm of a metronome set too fast.

I sat up, sheets falling to my waist, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against my bare feet, the sensation grounding me as I pressed the call button.

He answered on the first ring. "Beaumont."

Not "Beau." Never "Beau." That nickname was a concession to coaches and teammates, not something permitted within the Sullivan family.

"Good morning, Father." I kept my voice level, controlled.

"I've been monitoring your grades in the student portal. Professor Winters posted them an hour ago." His voice was calm. Measured. That was worse than if he'd been yelling. "Would you care to explain the C on your biomechanics assessment?"

Of course he had been checking. My father had insisted I provide him with my login credentials as a condition of his financial support. A Sullivan man had nothing to hide, after all. Especially not from the man funding his education and future.

My throat constricted. Professor Winters must have graded our projects overnight. I hadn't expected the grades to be posted until tomorrow. Hadn't prepared my explanation.

"I—" My mind raced through potential responses, discarding each one as insufficient. "It was a group project. My partners didn't complete their portions to the standard I—"

"And you failed to compensate for their inadequacies," he cut me off. "A Sullivan doesn't make excuses about teammates, Beaumont. A Sullivan elevates everyone around him."

The criticism landed precisely where it hurt most. I'd stayed up three nights in a row, rewriting sections my group members had barely attempted, correcting calculations they'd botched, restructuring arguments that made no logical sense. I'd done everything short of completing the entire project myself, which Professor Winters had explicitly forbidden after catching another student doing exactly that last semester.

"I did everything I could within the parameters," I said, my voice tighter than I'd intended.

"Evidently not," my father replied, each syllable precisely enunciated. "A C, Beaumont. Do you understand what that does to your GPA? What message that sends to scouts?"

"It's a single grade, Father. I can—"

"Sullivan men don't make excuses. They excel." He cut me off with the familiar refrain. "Your grandfather built his firm from nothing. I've taken it global. And you have the potential for an NHL career that could set you up for life—if you don't sabotage yourself with mediocrity."

The word "mediocrity" landed like a body check I hadn't braced for. In the Sullivan lexicon, it was the ultimate condemnation—worse than failure, which at least implied effort. Mediocrity suggested complacency. Weakness. Everything a Sullivan man couldn't afford to be.

I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. The technique usually helped maintain my composure.

It wasn't working this morning.

"I understand, Father. I'll speak with Professor Winters about additional credit."

"See that you do. And Beaumont?" His voice shifted, infinitesimally softer. "Don't give the scouts any reason to question your mental toughness."

The implication was clear. Mental toughness meant no signs of what he called my "quirks." No stimming. No rigidity about routines. None of the coping mechanisms that had made the world manageable for me since childhood.

"Yes, sir."

"Your step-mother sends her regards."

The call ended before I could respond. I sat there, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the silence. The absence of sound was somehow more cutting than his words had been.

I forced myself to move. Fifty-three minutes until I needed to leave for practice. Each minute precisely allocated in my morning routine.

I needed every one of those minutes to recalibrate. To process what had just happened and lock it away where it wouldn't affect my performance.

I shuffled into our shared kitchen, finding Parker already there, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug in hand. He glanced up, eyebrows raising slightly.

"You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," I managed, setting my phone down. "Just a call from home."

He nodded, not pressing further, taking another sip of his coffee before turning his attention back to his phone.

I measured coffee grounds into the French press. The familiar routine should have been calming, but my hands wouldn't quite steady.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Fifty-one minutes until I needed to leave for practice. Two minutes gone already, and I'd barely begun to process the conversation with my father.

Sullivan men don't make excuses. They excel.

I'd heard those words my entire life. On the ice at five years old, struggling to keep up with boys two years older. In elementary school, when testing had revealed my position on the spectrum and my mother had whispered, "We don't need to tell your father about this diagnosis." Through prep school and my first two years at Hartford, where I'd maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA while leading the defense in blocked shots and plus-minus rating.

Sullivan men excelled. They didn't get Cs on biomechanics projects. They didn't transfer from prestigious hockey programs like Hartford to less renowned schools like Steel City just because they offered better specialized academic programs. And they certainly didn't have unsettling, unwanted responses to aggression from teammates who epitomized everything a Sullivan man was not.

By the time I arrived at Monongahela Arena, my careful compartmentalization was already showing cracks.

"Sullivan!" Coach Barnes' voice boomed across the ice as I stepped out of the tunnel. "You're with Harrington today. Special assignment."

The fractures in my composure widened at the sound of Harrington's name. I'd managed to avoid him since the party. Three days of strategic exits from the locker room, skipping team breakfast, arriving early to classes we shared so I could sit where he couldn't make eye contact.

Three days of trying to forget the inexplicable heat that flooded my system whenever he was near.

"What's the assignment, Coach?" I kept my voice neutral as I adjusted my helmet strap—three times, right side, then left side. The familiar ritual steadied me slightly.

Coach grinned, a rare expression on his weathered face. "Battle drills. Lots of 'em. Voyagers are coming in Friday night, and those bastards love to throw the body. You boys need to be ready."

My stomach clenched. Battle drills. Physical contact. The exact opposite of the controlled, precise hockey I excelled at. They were all about instinct and grit—qualities Harrington possessed in abundance and I deliberately suppressed.

"Got it," I said, because there was nothing else to say.

"Sullivan!" Harrington's voice carried across the ice, that Brooklyn accent making my name sound like a challenge. He was already in position for the first drill, dark eyes watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He looked rested, focused—none of the wariness I'd seen at the party visible now.

I skated over, my blades carving into the fresh ice. I stopped five feet away from him—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain control. A safe distance. Professional.

"Harrington."

"Ready to get your hands dirty, Harvard?" The corner of his mouth quirked up. Not quite a smile. His eyes glinted with something between challenge and amusement as he tapped his stick against his shin pads. "Or is checking beneath a Sullivan?"

There it was—that same needling reference to my family. To my perceived privilege.

"I'll manage," I said, keeping my voice flat.

For the next forty minutes, we ran drills designed to simulate high-pressure contact situations. Angling drills along the boards. Net-front battles for positioning. Puck retrieval in the corners with defensive pressure.

Each exercise required physical contact with Harrington. His body against mine, muscle and tension and heat conducting through layers of padding. His breath was visible in the cold air, coming harder as the intensity increased. His scent—cedar and bergamot mingled with sweat—becoming more pronounced with each shared shift.

"D-men need to clear the crease!" Coach barked as we lined up for net-front battle drills. "Sullivan, I want you pushing Harrington out of the scoring area. No stick work. Use your body."

In any other context, with any other partner, this would have been straightforward. Technical. A simple application of leverage and momentum. But as I positioned myself against Harrington, felt the solid wall of his back pressing against my chest as we battled for position, my focus fragmented.

My father's voice echoed in my head: Sullivan men excel.

The C on my biomechanics project flashed behind my eyes: mediocrity.

Harrington's body shifted against mine, muscles tensing as he fought for better positioning: unwanted heat.

Too much input. Too many variables. Too much sensation.

"Sullivan! Head up!" Coach's voice sliced through my spiraling thoughts just as Harrington broke free from the crease drill and circled back for a simulated open-ice check.

Too late.

His shoulder caught me square in the chest, an expertly delivered hit that sent me sprawling onto the ice. My helmet bounced against the surface, the impact sending a spark of pain through my temples and a high-pitched ringing through my ears.

"Shit," Harrington muttered, skating a half-circle around me. His mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. "You good, Harvard?"

I ignored his comment, pushing myself up, feeling the cold of the ice seeping through my gloves. "Fine."

Coach's whistle pierced the air, the sound cutting through my fraying neural pathways like a knife. "Again! And Sullivan—stay focused this time. This isn't figure skating."

We reset. Harrington's dark eyes locked on mine across the faceoff circle. There was something new in his expression—concern? Confusion?

"Ready?" he asked, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, somehow carrying across the ice despite the ambient noise.

I gave a short nod, settling into position, centering my weight over my skates.

This time, I saw him coming. Braced for impact. Leaned into the hit instead of away from it—a technique I'd learned from studying game tape but rarely had to implement with my usual avoidance style.

Our bodies collided with a force that would have looked devastating to an observer, but the shared momentum distributed the impact. A textbook example of how to take a hit without getting hurt.

Except that as we made contact, as Harrington's body pressed against mine for that fraction of a second, that same unwanted heat flooded my system. My brain registered not just the tactical success of the maneuver but the firmness of his shoulder, the solidity of his frame, the grunt of exertion that escaped his throat—a sound that somehow bypassed all my analytical centers and registered directly in my spine.

I pushed away abruptly, skating backward several feet.

"Better!" Coach called. "That's how you absorb a hit without losing position. Again!"

Again and again and again. For thirty more minutes. My body was on autopilot while my mind frayed further with each collision. With each unwanted spike of awareness.

By the time Coach finally blew the whistle to end practice, I was vibrating with tension. My typical post-practice routine felt impossible to execute. There were too many sensations. Too many thoughts.

Sullivan men don't make excuses. They excel.

I made it to the locker room, mechanically removing my gear. Placing each piece in its proper position in my stall. Counting each movement.

"Hey, Sullivan," Harrington's voice cut through the noise as he approached, still in full gear. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his tone I couldn't place. "That last hit looked rough. You sure you're—"

Reynolds suddenly appeared between us, his broad shoulders creating a barrier. "Back off, Harrington. He doesn't need your kind of concern."

The implication was clear in Reynolds' sneer, in the way he positioned himself like a shield.

"Didn't realize you were Sullivan's personal bodyguard now, Reynolds," Harrington shot back, something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

"Just looking out for the team's investments," Reynolds replied. "Unlike some people, Sullivan actually has NHL prospects. Doesn't need distractions."

“Earth to Sullivan," Matthews said, waving a hand in front of my face. "You in there, man?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. The sounds of the locker room were suddenly too loud. Voices echoing. Equipment bags zipping. Skates dropping onto concrete.

"Hey, you okay?" Matthews frowned. "You look pale, dude."

I grabbed my towel and shower kit with movements that felt disconnected from my body. The locker room was closing in. Too many people. Too many sounds. Too many smells. Too much input without enough processing capacity.

The shower room was empty when I entered, the team's usual post-practice habits working in my favor. Most guys showered after cool-down stretching. I couldn't wait that long.

I chose the stall farthest from the door, pulling the curtain closed behind me. Inside this tiled sanctuary, I stripped off my Under Armor and compression shorts, movements mechanical and efficient despite my growing disorientation. Naked and vulnerable in a way that would normally make me uncomfortable, but I couldn't focus on modesty now. I just needed quiet. Needed space. Needed the sensory reset that only water could provide.

I turned the water on, not bothering to check the temperature. Stepped under the spray, my bare skin flinching at the initial cold shock.

The cold water against my overheated skin should have helped. Should have been grounding. Instead, it was one more sensation pushing me toward the edge.

I pressed my forehead against the cool tile wall, closing my eyes. Tried to focus on my breathing. Four in. Four hold. Four out.

But the pattern wouldn't come. My lungs refused to cooperate, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. My hands began to tingle, numbness spreading inward from my fingertips.

This was happening. After years of careful management, of building systems and routines to prevent exactly this scenario, I was having a full meltdown. In the team shower. Where anyone could walk in and see Sullivan perfection crumbling into Sullivan failure.

I bit down on my knuckles to keep from making noise, the pain providing a single point of focus in the storm of sensation. My other hand pressed flat against the tile, fingers splayed wide. Five points of contact. Something solid to anchor me.

It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. The water beat against my skin like needles. The light reflecting off wet surfaces sent shards of brightness into my vision. Every sound amplified until it was unbearable.

I slid down the wall, knees giving out, until I was huddled on the shower floor. Curled in on myself like I had as a child, before I'd learned that Sullivan men don't show weakness. Don't show difference. Don't show anything but excellence.

I'm not sure how long I stayed there. Long enough that the water began to warm as the system adjusted automatically. Long enough that the voices in the locker room had faded, suggesting most of the team had left.

Long enough that I didn't hear the curtain slide open until it was too late.

"What the—Sullivan?"

Harrington's voice cut through the chaos in my head. I couldn't look up. Couldn't bear to see the expression on his face. Pity. Disgust. Confusion. Any of them would be too much.

"Go away," I managed, the words scraping my throat raw.

There was silence, broken only by the sound of running water. I dared to hope he'd listened. That he'd leave me to put myself back together in private.

Then came the sound of the curtain being yanked open, the metal rings scraping against the rod. Before I could process what was happening, the curtain snapped shut again and Harrington was in my space—all heat and presence and overwhelming proximity.

"Don't—" I started to protest, but his hand clamped firmly over my mouth, silencing me.

"Shut the fuck up unless you want everyone to hear," he hissed, his body crowding mine in the narrow stall. "Just shut up and breathe with me."

I struggled against his grip, panic spiking, but he held firm, his other arm locking around my waist and pulling my back against his chest. I could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat, the heat of his skin even through the cool water.

"Stop fighting," he growled against my ear, his voice low but commanding. "I'm not leaving you like this. My sister gets these too. Trust me for five fucking seconds, Sullivan."

The mention of his sister cut through my panic. His grip wasn't painful, just secure. Grounding. The pressure of his palm against my mouth and nose created resistance when I tried to breathe, forcing me to slow down.

"That's it," he muttered as my struggles subsided. "Breathe against my hand. Slow. Four counts in, four counts out."

He was in nothing but compression shorts, the fabric already soaked from the shower spray. His chest pressed against my bare back, skin to skin, the contact sending a different kind of charge through my system—one that had nothing to do with panic and everything to do with an awareness I'd been fighting since the first moment I'd seen him.

"Focus on my breathing," he instructed, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Feel it? Match it."

I tried to concentrate on the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The rhythmic expansion and contraction. The warm exhales that ghosted across my wet shoulder.

My own breathing was still ragged, caught between panic and the overwhelming sensory input that had triggered the meltdown in the first place. But there was something solid about Harrington—something grounding in the way he held me, firm but not crushing.

"I can't," I managed against his palm.

"You can," he countered, no room for argument in his tone. "Four count in. Hold. Four count out. With me."

His arm tightened fractionally around my waist, the pressure increasing just enough to register through my overloaded system. Not painful—just present. Undeniable. Real.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the guidance of his body. The steady thud of his heartbeat against my spine became a metronome, helping me find a rhythm in the chaos. His hand adjusted slightly over my mouth, his thumb accidentally brushing across my lower lip as he shifted his grip. The unexpected gentleness of that touch sent a different kind of shiver through me.

"That's it," he murmured, voice dropping lower, the Brooklyn accent thickening. "Just like that."

Something in his tone—that hint of approval—sent an unexpected pulse of heat through my body, distracting me from the overwhelm.

Gradually, impossibly, my breathing began to synchronize with his. The tingling in my extremities started to recede. The crushing pressure in my chest eased. I was still trembling, but the violent shaking had subsided to something more manageable.

"Good boy," he whispered, the words barely audible but unmistakable.

The praise hit me like an electric current, my body responding with mortifying enthusiasm. I was suddenly, acutely aware of my nakedness, of the blood rushing south with alarming speed.

We were pressed together under warm water, his body curled protectively around mine. And my body was responding in ways that had nothing to do with sensory overwhelm and everything to do with the man behind me.

Horror and arousal battled for dominance as I registered my erection, painfully hard against my stomach. I tried to shift away, but his arm tightened around my waist, the subtle movement causing my cock to brush against his forearm.

"Not yet," he murmured, his lips nearly grazing my ear. Then a pause, a shift in his breathing. "Or is it something else you're trying to hide, Sullivan?"

His hand slid down from my waist to rest on my hip, fingers splayed wide, deliberately stopping just short of where my traitor body was begging for contact. Heat surged through me at his pointed acknowledgment.

"Look at you, straight boy," he whispered, his voice a dangerous rumble against my ear. "Getting all hard for me."

I jerked away—or tried to—but his arm became a steel band around me, holding me firmly against him. Panic and arousal twisted together into something I couldn't name, couldn't process.

"Let me go," I hissed, mortification burning through me.

"I won't tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about," he said, still holding me in place. "Just relax and breathe for me, straight boy."

The repeated label hit me like a taunt and a challenge rolled into one. I should have been angry—should have fought harder—but something about the way he said it, combined with the firm pressure of his body against mine, sent another pulse of heat directly to my groin.

My breathing hitched, caught between arousal and panic. Harrington must have felt it, because his grip gentled, though he didn't release me. For a moment, he seemed to remember why he'd come into the shower in the first place.

"Hey," he said, voice losing some of its edge. "You good? The meltdown part, I mean."

"I—" I started, but couldn't find words to continue.

We stayed like that, the shower spray creating a warm cocoon around us, for what felt like both moments and hours. My awareness gradually expanded beyond the immediate sensations of his body against mine. The water temperature. The sound of distant voices in the locker room. The fact that I was completely naked while Harrington wore only compression shorts, now soaked through and clinging to him.

"How did you know?" I asked, my voice barely audible above the shower's spray.

"My sister," he said, his voice quiet but close to my ear, "she gets these sometimes. Bad ones. Nothing helps except pressure. Weight. Something to push back against all the... everything."

The simple honesty in his voice—the lack of pity or judgment—undid something tight and knotted in my chest.

And as my system stabilized, a new awareness took its place.

"Better now?" he asked, slowly releasing his hold on me.

I nodded, still not trusting my voice. With the loss of his stabilizing presence, I felt suddenly unsteady, reaching out to brace myself against the tile wall.

He reached for the shower curtain, pausing with his hand on the edge. "I'm going to step out," he said, his voice low. "Give it a few minutes before you follow. Don't need Reynolds or anyone getting the wrong idea."

I looked up sharply at that, but Harrington's expression was unreadable, somewhere between concern and that perpetual challenge.

"We're not going to talk about this," he added, not meeting my eyes. "Not the meltdown. Not... the other thing." His gaze flicked briefly downward, acknowledging my body's persistent reaction to him.

Before I could respond, he slipped out of the shower stall, pulling the curtain closed behind him. Through the thin fabric, I watched his silhouette as he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

I stood there under the spray, alone again but somehow still feeling the ghost of his touch on my skin, the echo of "good boy" ringing in my ears, and the unmistakable knowledge that nothing between us would ever be the same.